I felt no fear. I am sure my pulse did not give a throb the more for this menace. So deadly weak and helpless as I lay, it was unnecessary to shoot me. The slightest blow from the but of the rifle would have driven the last faint spark of life out of my exhausted body. I looked calmly, indifferently even, into the muzzle of the piece.
"If you can answer it to your God, to your and my judge and creator, do your will."
My words, which from faintness I could scarcely render audible, had, nevertheless, a sudden and startling effect upon the man. He trembled from head to foot, let the but of his gun fall heavily to the ground, and gazed at me with open mouth and staring eyes.
"This one, too, comes with his God!" muttered he. "God! and your and my creator—and—judge."
He seemed hardly able to articulate these words, which were uttered by gasps and efforts, as though something had been choking him.
"His and my—judge"—groaned he again. "Can there be a God, a creator and judge?"
As he stood thus muttering to himself, his eyes suddenly became fixed, and his features horribly distorted.
"Do it not!" cried he, in a shrill tone of horror, that rang through my head. "It will bring no blessin' with it. I am a dead man! God be merciful to me! My poor wife, my poor children!"
The rifle fell from his hands, and he smote his breast and forehead in a paroxysm of the wildest fury. It was frightful to behold the conscience-stricken wretch, stamping madly about, and casting glances of terror behind him, as though demons had been hunting him down. The foam flew from his mouth, and I expected each moment to see him fall to the ground in a fit of epilepsy. Gradually, however, he became more tranquil.
"D'ye see nothin' in my face?" said he in a hoarse whisper, suddenly pausing close to where I lay.